


a relationship anthology

by Sparrows



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Critical Role Relationship Week, Multi, critrole rsweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 14:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9611201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrows/pseuds/Sparrows
Summary: For the Critical Role Relationship Week event, involving seven randomly-rolled pairings (platonic or romantic), and in my case a short fic for each.Day 1: Scanlan & CassandraDay 2: Percy & GilmoreDay 3: Cassandra & AlluraDay 4: Kashaw & PikeDay 5: Gilmore &/ VaxDay 6: Keyleth/KashawDay 7: Vex & Cassandra





	1. Day 1: Scanlan & Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note: this chapter was written prior to episode 84 (and modified only slightly afterwards). It does not take episode 85 into account at all.

Scanlan has acquired several children in his many years, only one of whom is actually related to him by blood. Oh, sure, none of them are _children_  children, but they are, nevertheless, his kids, because he’s the oldest member of Vox Machina and none of them have anybody looking out for them. One lonely old gnome with a fondness for crude jokes and even cruder limericks has to be better than nobody at all, if only slightly.

Which is why he’s not entirely surprised to find himself looking at Cassandra sitting alone with her shoulders slumped, and thinking, _oh. Another one? Alright then._  It’s the same sense of fierce familial protectiveness, the part of him that can’t see an upset child and leave well enough alone. It’ll get him killed (a third time) someday, he’s sure.

She’s perched on a window seat in some hallway or another - it seems the de Rolos were fond of having a castle you could get lost in, so he doesn’t exactly know _where_  they are, just that they’re a long way away from the kitchens he was originally looking for - and with the way her arms are hugged around her knees there’s enough room for him to hop up onto the other end of the seat.

She doesn’t notice he’s there until Scanlan clears his throat and then she flinches, freezing like a startled cat. Scanlan waves cheerfully. “Copper for your thoughts?” he says, leaning against the cold stone wall at his back. “I’m told I’m a good listener.”

Cassandra smiles, but the expression is thin and more than a little forced. “Nobody’s ever told you that in your life and you know it,” she replies, though there’s no real venom to the words and the smile turns a little more genuine as she speaks. She turns to look out of the window, gazing into the snowstorm flurrying past, and in profile Scanlan can pick out the de Rolo family resemblance more clearly than ever - Cassandra shares her older brother’s nose, his thick, blunted eyebrows, the sharp line of his jaw reflected in the slightly gentler curve of her own.

He’d thought before that she was about Kaylie’s age. Now he realises Cassandra can’t be any older than eighteen, and from the way she behaves when she thinks nobody is looking he’d wager she’s even younger. The roundness of youth hasn’t entirely left her, even after five years living terrified under the Briarwoods’ reign. That she might be _younger_  than his flesh-and-blood daughter makes something indistinct ache in his chest.

Or maybe that’s just the lingering aftershock of being brought back from the dead twice in as many days. _A little of column A, a little of column B,_ he thinks.

“Hey, it counts if I’m the one telling myself,” he says, getting comfy. A thought occurs to him. “I’m supposed to be on strict bedrest - cleric’s orders.” Pike won’t _kill_ him for being out of his bed, not after everything they went through the get him back, but even though he’s not sure he wants to risk her worried anger, being confined to his room would have driven him mad sooner rather than later. Plus, he still hasn’t scrubbed all the pudding off the walls, and he’s quite certain Percy has told the servants not to help. “Promise you won’t tell?”

Cassandra gives a snorted laugh at that, looking away from the window to give him a childishly-exaggerated wink. “I promise.” For a moment, she looks and sounds the mid-teen girl she really is, but then Scanlan watches the walls go up once more; if he looks close, Scanlan fancies he can even see the mirthful light wink out of her eyes like snuffed candles. Too young, to have this burden placed on her.

He searches for comforting words and comes up utterly dry. Humour, Scanlan can do; comfort and consolation isn’t exactly his strong point. He settles instead for pulling a worn old harmonica out of one pocket, giving it a few careful toots to check the tune. He’s had the harmonica for years - it had been one of Doctor Dranzel’s earliest gifts, along with one of his earlier rules. _Always carry an instrument,_  he’d said gruffly. _Never know when you might need one._

Clearing his throat, Scanlan slips into an old tune, tapping one boot against the stonework to help himself keep time. He’s not sure what to say, so he’ll let the music do it for him.

And if Cassandra starts tapping along with him? Well, he’s not going to tell anyone.


	2. Day 2: Percy & Gilmore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy approaches Gilmore seeking help.

“Gilmore, I… May I ask a favour of you?”

Gilmore looked up from the book he was reading - a welcome break, for he’d been reading for some time and he could feel the sting of a headache in his temples - to see Percival de Rolo stood in the doorway. Immediately he straightened up, thumbing a bookmark into place before flipping the cover shut in one smooth motion.

“That depends on the favour,” Gilmore said, drumming his fingers on the book’s cover as he looked Percival up and down. He frowned. “I’m not fighting another dragon,” he added, and that seemed to wring a laugh out of Percival.

“No, no more dragons,” he agreed, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “At least for now. You know what we’re like; I make no promises.” Something in his smile seemed to run tight as he spoke - indeed, they both knew very well Vox Machina’s penchant for rushing headlong into danger, and Gilmore knew more than he would have liked about how often it came back to bite them.

Satisfied that he wasn’t about to be asked to face down an ancient dragon again, Gilmore leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table to perch his chin upon his hands. “So? Your favour, then? Come now, I haven’t all day.”

Percy cleared his throat and stepped into the room, one hand fishing in his pocket for something. After a moment’s searching he produced a small wooden object, cylindrical in shape and just the right size for Percy to hold on his outstretched palm. Raising an eyebrow, Gilmore plucked the box from his hand and inspected it for a moment. The curved sides - split into two stacked pieces, he realised upon holding the thing - bore intricately-carved patterns of flowering ivy, the dense weave leaving few spots untouched. The top was circular and mostly undecorated, though Gilmore could see several metallic plates weaving into a spiral design recessed beneath an outer wooden ring.

Percy held up both hands, miming a twisting motion like he was opening a jar, and with his curiosity now piqued Gilmore took the box in both hands and carefully spun the two halves of the box in opposite directions. The spiral design opened, each metal plate sliding outwards and vanishing from view, and a small ring lifted from the darkened inside of the box. It glinted in the light of Gilmore’s study, and Percy folded his hands in front of him with a pleased smile.

Gilmore chuckled, marvelling at the delicate design of the box. It really was a clever little piece of engineering, no doubt one of Percy’s own make. After a moment he looked from the ring to Percy. “I’m charmed, truly,” he said with a wry grin, “but I’m afraid I’m already spoken for, my friend.”

Immediately Percy’s cheeks flushed pink and he raised both hands like he was warding something away, eyes comically wide behind his glasses. “No!” he blurted out, waving both hands. “No, no, you - I - that’s not what I meant,” he said, bringing his hands up to his face in despair for a moment before dragging his fingers through his hair. Gilmore flashed him an easy grin and lowered the box when Percy made no attempt to take it back.

“It’s for Vex, actually,” he explained, folding his arms. “I was hoping you could enchant it.”

Gilmore looked up from his close inspection of the box’s mechanisms, brows furrowed. “Surely Allura could do an equally good job,” he said with a faint frown.

Percy’s cheeks were still pink, but Gilmore watched as the colour spread to his ears. One of the advantages to his Marquesian skintone; it was so much harder for people to tell when he blushed. “I thought Allura might tease me,” he admitted. Gilmore laughed at that, taking the ring out of the box to look at it.

“Your mistake was assuming _I_ wouldn’t do the same thing,” he said with fond amusement, looking the ring over as Percy gave an indignant huff. The band was quite broad, similar in style to the rings Gilmore preferred, and made of a brightly-shining silver. Studded evenly around the band were small stones, each pale in colour and no larger than one of Gilmore’s fingernails. He recognised whitestone when he saw it by now, as well as the de Rolo crest engraved around the largest bead of stone.

Already thinking over what effect the stone would have on any enchantment, Gilmore replaced the ring within the velvet that held it and twisted the box shut, putting it down on his desk. “What sort of enchantment were you considering?” he asked, steepling his fingers.

“Feather falling.” Percy’s response was immediate and unflinching. Gilmore nodded.

“I’m sure she’ll say yes,” he said with a sly grin, and Percy reacted by putting a hand over his face.

“I’m not proposing!” he spluttered. “This will be - it is a promise. One I intend to _keep_.” His tone became warm and gentle as he reached out to tap a blunt fingernail against the top of the ring box. “Vex will _always_ have a home here, if she wants it.”

In the years he’d known Vox Machina - and, by extent, had known Percy - Gilmore could not recall a time he’d sounded so… gentle. So fond. It brought a smile to his face, remembering the time when Percy had been Vox Machina’s grim-faced shadow and comparing him to the sort of man who blushed when teased about his - girlfriend? Lover? Partner? He had little idea what term the two used.

Percy coughed, apparently bashful over the honesty he’d shown, and took a step back. “I’ll - you’ll tell me when it’s done, yes?”

Gilmore nodded. “It may take a day or two, but it will be done. Be pleased, Percival,” he murmured, and with a brief bow Percy left the room, leaving Gilmore alone with the ringbox on his desk.

To the empty room, Gilmore smiled. “Vex’ahlia is a lucky woman,” he murmured thoughtfully.


	3. Day 3: Cassandra & Allura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra has a girl-talk with Allura.

The sun was just beginning to set over the mountains when Cassandra arrived for tea with Allura.

It had started out simply as an occasional thing; a desire for a moment where neither woman had to think of anything related to Whitestone, the running thereof, or the adventuring group calling it home. Quickly, though, it had become a regular staple of Cassandra’s life, clearing space every other evening for some time out on one of the castle’s western balconies, sitting together and sharing a pot of tea.

Allura is already waiting for her by the time Cassandra arrives, looking neat and presentable with her hair perfectly braided as always. (Cassandra is convinced she does it with magic. There can be no other explanation.) She sets down her cup and pours a second for Cassandra as the younger woman takes a seat, smoothing her dress underneath her and taking a moment to calm herself.

It’s… difficult for her, being outside of the castle, and even something so minor as sitting on a balcony frays at her nerves. It sets off every little signal in the back of her head put there by the Briarwoods - she’d always been punished so severely for trying to leave the castle, for entering wings of it that they wanted her kept away from, for doing  _ anything _ they disliked, and it hasn’t even been a full season since she was freed from that.

“Breathe, Cassandra,” Allura reminds her in a gentle tone. She pushes the cup and saucer towards Cassandra and puts down the teapot, lacing her fingers together on the table. “I’m here. You are safe.”

The words help. They do. She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out, slowly, reaching for the cup to take a sip. The warmth spreads down her throat and into her stomach, staving off some of the chill of the evening Whitestone air. For a few minutes they sit in silence, drinking tea and simply enjoying the peace and quiet - something in rare supply, these days, and something they both hold onto wherever possible.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Cassandra says, looking at Allura’s hands instead of her face. “It’s… of a  _ personal  _ nature.” She glances up just in time to see Allura raise an eyebrow and feels her cheeks go pink.

“We’re alone,” Allura points out, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth. If anything it makes Cassandra’s blush even darker and she looks down again, focusing on her hands, on the way her fingers intertwine. The permission to continue is unspoken, but Cassandra finds her throat closing up for a moment.

Finally, she can handle it no longer.

“I’ve… I’ve seen you and Lady Kima,” she says carefully, clasping her hands upon the table and running the pads of her thumbs across the opposing knuckles. “Walking the gardens. Taking meals together. You behave the way the--”

The words die in her throat. She  _ wants _ to say ‘the way my parents used to’, had completely  _ intended _ to say that. What had  _ actually _ been about to leave her mouth was ‘the way the Briarwoods used to’, and revulsion crawls up her throat like a living thing.

Allura reaches across the table, setting one delicate hand over the top of Cassandra’s still-clasped hands. Cassandra takes a breath and closes her eyes, keeping them closed as she very carefully finishes, “the way my parents used to. You love each other, don’t you?”

When she opens her eyes, Allura is smiling. The skin at the corners of her eyes creases up with the smile, the way it often does in women approaching middle age, the expression looking soft and warm on her face. Cassandra has fuzzy memories of the times her mother had smiled like that. ( _ Johanna _ , her brain reminds itself,  _ your mother’s name was Johanna. It was not Delilah. _ )

“Yes,” Allura says simply, letting her hand stay where it is. “Kima and I - we were apart for a while, but… times like these have a habit of reminding you what is important. When all this is said and done, I intend to stay with her this time. Why do you ask?”

Cassandra drops her gaze to their hands. “How did you and Kima know?” she whispers. “That you… that…” With a growl of frustration she pulls her hands out from under Allura’s, propping both elbows on the table to bury her face into her hands for a few moments. Her cheeks feel red-hot; Cassandra has little doubt that they must have the colour to match.

“In a few years,” she says, lowering her hands, “I’ll be old enough to marry. And Whitestone will need all the political clout it can muster.” Allura makes an understanding noise as she sips at her tea, and Cass feels the strength to continue. “I used to think it was the concept of marriage that bothered me. That I didn’t want to be  _ tethered _ to some man I hardly knew.”

Allura lowers her cup and smiles. “And if it were a woman?” she asks, smile broadening into a knowing, twinkle-eyed smirk. Cassandra feels her face heat and looks away.

“I couldn’t. I - I can’t.”

“Says who?” Allura counters, leaning forward on the table. Cassandra thinks of her father, furious after catching Vesper kissing one of the maids in a guest bedroom, and pushes the memory away. “If I’m not mistaken, your brother and  Vex’ahlia seem  _ very  _ happy together. If Whitestone should need a lineage, I daresay it’ll have one.” Her expression softens, and she gently reaches out to take both of Cassandra’s hands in her own. This time Cassandra makes no move to pull away. “It’s okay. Nobody can tell you who to love, you know.”

Cassandra opens her mouth to say something and settles for nodding instead. “Thank you,” she whispers. “I - I’m not sure I believe you, but thank you.”

Allura pours her another cup of tea, and they watch the sun finish setting in a comfortable silence.


	4. Day 4: Kashaw & Pike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarenrae is the goddess of healing and redemption. Kashaw could kind of use both. He could also use a goddess he can actually pray to. Pike can help with that.

Every day, Kashaw’s route from the training grounds up to the castle takes him past the temple to Sarenrae. At first, it’s not on purpose - Whitestone’s still something of a maze to him, as most cities are, and it takes him a while to get used to the place. But every time he walks past he feels a warmth on his skin, and every time he stops outside the old, broad doors, feeling a prickle at the nape of his neck and in every scar lining his arm.

One day, though - when Vox Machina has raced off for some overseas trip in search of… a cloak, or something, Keyleth hadn’t been clear - he stops outside the temple and looks at it. Really looks. It’s built of whitestone, with thick, sturdy walls meant to help block out the cold. The windows are polished and made of many small pieces of glass; it’s a style he’s seen in some larger chapels of the world, though there seems to be no particular design shaped from the glass pieces. That shivering sensation runs across his skin again, like something is calling from far, far away.

Kashaw shakes his head and pushes open the double doors.

It’s empty inside, the setting sun shining around Kashaw and spilling in amber pools upon the polished stone floor and the old, lovingly-worn rugs that line it. The temple used to be filled with people, when Whitestone was still taking on refugees - now that most of them have been given homes, the temple is quieter, and Kashaw lets the doors fall closed behind him with a resounding  _ thoom _ that echoes through the empty space.

He’s sweaty, and filthy, and his muscles are beginning to ache from the day’s drills and training, but Kash pushes away the physical discomfort as he steps down the main aisle of the temple. It’s built as a fairly open space, here in front, with rows of wooden benches for those attending service facing an altar. It’s the altar Kashaw stops before, looking up at the statue that stands behind it.

Sarenrae looks down upon him, her hands held out in a welcoming gesture, palms facing up. Her face is rounded and soft, full lips curved into a smile. The braziers and lanterns that light the temple cast a warm golden glow upon the state’s face, the flickering nature of the light lending an almost lifelike cast to the goddess’ stone face. What had been a vague chill outside transforms here, in the presence of the divine.

Kashaw reaches up and unclasps his cloak from his shoulders, folding the deep blue fabric in his hands until it’s thick enough to form a decent padding. Then he places the bundle down, smoothing it slightly, and drops to his knees. His armor clangs on the way down but he ignores it, keeping his head bowed for a moment as he works his tongue over dry, cracked lips, trying to think of the words to a prayer he’s never made before.

His hands are shaking when he clasps them before his chest, lifting his head until he’s looking up into Sarenrae’s polished whitestone eyes. He feels distinctly like an intruder, the scars on his arm beginning to sting to such a degree that he looks down, half-expecting them to be glowing with Her power.

But the sensation fades, phantom pain flickering away, and Kashaw breathes out. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Sarenrae, blessed lady of light and healing,” a sweet voice says from somewhere behind Kashaw. He doesn’t turn around but he does startle, back straightening slightly. “May you watch over our friends as they venture far from us. May your grace be their sword and shield in these dark times.” Clanking footsteps echo through the temple, drawing closer until Pike Trickfoot stands beside Kashaw, partly-armored with her hair in buns atop her head.

She turns and offers him a smile, dropping a weathered cushion beside his folded cloak and kneeling upon it like him. Her fingers weave together and she speaks again. “May we serve as beacons of your light, leading home those who are lost, and may we always find shelter in your forgiveness.”

Kashaw listens and nods when she finishes, and Pike looks up at him with arched brows. “Your turn,” she says gently, nudging him with an elbow. There’s a smile playing about about her lips.

“I’m no priest of hers,” he says, inclining his head towards the statue, and Pike’s laughter rings clear like a bell-chime.

“You don’t have to be,” she says, adjusting her knees upon the pillow. “That you’re here is enough. Sarenrae’s the goddess of redemption. Second chances. That anything, even broken things, can be made better than they were.” At that her eyes flick to his arm, seeing without judging or making assumptions.

But Kashaw frowns and shakes his head, unclasping his hands. “I’m not sure She’d like me praying to another goddess,” he grumbles, rubbing a palm across the scars criss-crossing his exposed forearm. The scars prickle under his touch.

Pike’s smile is cheerful, toothy, and entirely fearless. “If Vesh has a problem with you worshipping Sarenrae,” she says brightly, “then she’ll have a problem with  _ me _ . If I say you can pray here, then you can pray here.”

Her hand pats his knee reassuringly. Kashaw takes a deep breath and folds his hands again, looking up. Now that he compares the two, the statue’s face bears many similarities to Pike’s own - they share the same rounded features, the kind eyes, the pointed chin. He lets out the breath as a sigh and closes his eyes, letting the silence of the temple fall upon him.

He repeats the words Pike had spoken as best he can remember them, stumbling only slightly. Pike’s hand remains a comforting weight upon his knee and when he finishes, opening his eyes, she’s still watching him with a smile.

“It’s hard being left behind,” she says as he lets out a sigh. “I’d be with them if I could, but, well. I’m needed here. We’re both needed here. We just have to trust that the people we love will come home to us.”

“They will,” Kashaw says, looking up at Sarenrae. A thought occurs to him. “Where’d the statue come from, anyway?”

Pike grins. “Some of the refugees were stonemasons. They were thankful for all the temple and Whitestone provided, so they carved her for us and said it was to pay back the kindness we’d shown.” She pauses, twirling a loose lock of hair around her finger. In the firelight it catches gold around the edges. “They based her face on mine. I’m… not sure how to feel about that. I’m basically praying to my own face now?”

They laugh together, Kashaw shifting back to sit down properly and reclaim his cloak-turned-cushion. He shakes it out and wraps it around his shoulders again, clasping it into place over his armour. “I’m sure she’ll understand,” he snorts, pushing off until he’s stood up again. Pike stands too, dusting herself off and grabbing her own cushion from the ground. “I mean, if anyone’s likely to, it’s her, right?”

“Mm. Y’know, you’re welcome here any time, Kash,” Pike says, folding her arms. “It might do you good to come here more often. I know it helps me, when I can’t be with them.”

Kashaw nods. His shoulders feel lighter, though still strained from the day’s exertions. Pike gives him another cheery smile, patting his hand - that’s as high on him as she can reach - and making her way out of the temple, pushing one heavy door out of the way with surprising ease given her short stature. Kashaw watches her go and then makes his own way out, retrieving his spear and hefting it over his shoulder as he goes.

He pauses on the threshold, turning away from the sunset to look back into the temple.

He could have sworn he heard a voice. Weird.


	5. Day 5: Gilmore &/ Vax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't what I set out to write but it's still sort of good? I don't know.
> 
> Chapter warnings: character death

Vax has this theory, okay? Somewhere out there, in another time, in another world, another life, is a version of him that did things differently. Lots of different versions of himself for every little thing that he’s fucked up in twenty-seven - nearly twenty-eight, he needs to think of a gift to buy for Vex - years of living and breathing and doing all the things that people usually do. And doing a lot of the things they usually don’t, come to think of it.

Still. He had a point with this. The point, right, the point is that somewhere out there things turned out different. And maybe different doesn’t mean okay, but. But Vax might take anything, at this point.

* * *

Vax settles himself in place atop Gilmore’s hips, keeping his gaze focused on Gil’s face as he unclasps his armour and peels it away, tugging the tight-fitting clothing he wears underneath off after a moment. He can feel Gilmore’s hands on his hipbones, thumbs rubbing circles into exposed skin, and he lets out a soft groan just to hear the way Gilmore’s breath stutters in response.

The others will be in Emon for hours yet, shopping and whoring and haggling and getting lost in every side-street they can find, but Vax - Vax is content right here, where he is, his pickpocket fingers turning their deft attention to the laces of Gilmore’s pants.

When Gilmore says his name he says it soft, every syllable filled with love like Vax has never heard it before; there’s an admiration, there, for his quick wit and quicker hands, for the grace and speed of his body and the kindness of his mind, and Gilmore offers it to him so freely that Vax thinks - no, he knows, deep down in the core of him - that he could never, ever turn it away.

* * *

Vax knows how it looks when people die. That’s the thing, about killing a lot of people when your main weapon is a pointy bit of metal; you get a real good memory for the stages of someone dying.

So that’s how he recognises it in Gilmore.

“C’mon, stay with me,” he says, feeling Gilmore’s weight settle over his legs. There’s a hand wrapped loosely around Vax’s wrist. Someone is crying; he thinks it might be him, and it hurts. Gods, it hurts. “Please, Gil, just - Pike can help, okay, Pike can–”

Gilmore shushes him but doesn’t say anything; whatever he was going to say is lost in coughing and blood spattering down his chin into his goatee. His hand spasms tight for maybe all of a second around Vax’s wrist. There’s fresh burn wounds open and oozing across the majority of Gil’s skin, places where the fabric of his robes hasn’t so much been scorched as it has been melted into him.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Gilmore manages after a few moments. There are wingbeats in the sky behind Vax, the distant roars and shrieks of dragons laying waste to the city, to Gilmore’s city, to his home, and Vax uses both hands to cup Gilmore’s burned and bloodied face. “Couldn’t ask… for a better view.”

Vax knows how people die. He’s watched it happen before. And he watches it again.

* * *

The Conclave has been dead for six years and Emon is still rebuilding. Maybe, Vax thinks, it will always be rebuilding; there will always be a crater where the palace used to be, a boiling pit of ever-burning magma that might have been the heart of a volcano, once.

Gilmore presses a soft kiss to Vax’s cheek, wrapping both arms around his waist from behind. Vax allows himself to relax, looking out over the city as dawn comes - from this angle you can see right down into the Promenade from all the way up here in the Cloudtop district, and it’s like the city never burned at all. A second kiss, just under his jaw, snaps Vax out of it.

Habit makes him ask: “What day is it?”

Gilmore hums. “Thursday, my bird,” he replies, setting his chin against the top of Vax’s head. “I’ve made coffee. Come join me?” His tone is soft, persuasive, and Vax nods slowly. He eyes the Promenade, not quite busy at this time of the morning, and when Gilmore pulls away to go pour the drinks, he follows.

* * *

Gilmore’s mouth presses into a hard line. He leans heavy against the doorframe, watching Vax with dark, neatly-outlined eyes.

“You’re hurting both of us by doing this,” he observes in a quiet, disappointed tone.

“This?” Vax says, and Gilmore lifts a ring-adorned hand to gesture between them.

“This,” he echoes. “You made a choice. You seemed happy,” he says, hand falling lax to his side. “But a truly happy man does not come to my door every other day to remind me that he–”

“Still loves you, dearly,” Vax whispers. “As…”

“As a friend.” Gilmore’s tone is bitter. Sour, even. “As you have reminded me. Endlessly.” He straightens up, and some of the light from within the building spills out to light up Vax’s face. When Vax opens his mouth to interject, Gilmore raises a finger to silence him. “Did it occur to you, Vax’ildan, that you _hurt_ me that day?”

 _You hurt me deeply. It’s **all** I think about._ Gilmore’s face, but not - not his words, Vax had thought at the time. Now they come back in a stinging rush, not so untrue as Vax had hoped at the time.

“It would be better for both of us, I think, if you did not call on me again.” Gilmore doesn’t sound angry - he sounds… sad? Disappointed, perhaps, or merely tired. “Goodnight, Vax’ildan.”

Vax doesn’t walk away. The door closes in his face, instead.

* * *

In this world they never meet at all. In this world Vax burns alive with his mother and sister when Thordak rains fire upon the village of Byroden, incinerated in a wave of heat that doesn’t even leave bones behind when it wipes the town off the maps.

* * *

In this world Gilmore remains Geddemore, remains in Marquet, and Vax is forever unaware of a man with a charming smile and dark skin, darker eyes, a fondness for purple and gold, a man who says his name like a blessing.

* * *

Vax sits next to the grave, sometimes.

Funny how lifespans work. Gilmore spent half a lifetime loving Vax; it had been barely a quarter of Vax’s. And decades after it still hurts, still aches; he knows Vex hurts the same way but she, at least, has children - grand-children, even - to watch over, seeing the legacy she and Percival left - are leaving - will leave behind. Vax has no such thing.

“I miss you,” he says, in the same tone of voice one would use to describe the weather, because they are both equally factual. It’s raining today. Vax misses Gilmore. The sun is behind a cloud. Vax feels like half of him was ripped away. Equal facts.

He leans against the headstone. He’s been feeling tired, lately. Adventuring wears on a body, he knows. Vax isn’t particularly old for a half-elf, but. But he thinks, maybe, if he just closed his eyes, just for a moment, he might glimpse a familiar face. That would be nice

* * *

Vax has a theory. He’d like it to be true. He’d like it if, somewhere out there, there was a version of him who got what he wanted. A version of him that didn’t fuck up. Twenty-seven-nearly-twenty-eight years of decisions is a lot of alternate versions of himself. _One_ of them has to be happy, right?


	6. Day 6: Keyleth/Kashaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for uploading this one a bit later than usual; as you can imagine, I've spent most of today not exactly in the mood for writing.

Keyleth spins round and round, laughter spilling from her as the rain falls on her skin, her hair, soaking straight through her clothes and freezing her to the bone. Her bare feet splash in the puddles, muddy up to the middle of her shins and kicking up sprays of water in their wake. She grabs her skirts in her hands, hitching the sodden silks up past her knees, and looks up to meet Kashaw’s eyes.

_ He’s _ planted himself firmly in the doorway, where it’s not raining, because he’s not  _ completely mad _ . Still, Keyleth’s having fun, grinning and dancing in the rainstorm. It doesn’t really  _ rain _ much up in Whitestone; the climate’s more suited to snow, which suits Kashaw just fine.

“Come on, Kash! Come have fun!” Keyleth calls, letting go of her skirts to beckon him with both hands. Her smile is brilliant, eyes alight with joy.

“Not a chance,” Kashaw says. “You go have fun and get soaked. I’m staying right--”

Keyleth grabs one of his hands with both of hers, still giggling breathlessly as she pulls him forward. Normally, Keyleth wouldn’t be able to budge him; as it is, she catches him so badly off-guard that he nearly trips over his own feet, stumbling out into the courtyard.

She laughs and begins to twirl around him, still clasping his hand in hers so that he’s forced to move with her. The rain’s turned her usually-fiery hair a darker shade of auburn, the dense waves and curls sticking to her skin but occasionally flung free as she spins.

Despite himself, Kashaw finds himself smiling, getting swept up in the sheer childlike joy seeping out of Keyleth’s every pore; she laughs, high and bright, letting go of Kash’s hand to twirl like a dancer in a flurry of wet fabric and rainwater spray. He can feel the thick fabric of his sweater beginning to grow heavy with water, a chill working its way through him.

With a laugh of his own Kashaw breaks forward, taking Keyleth by surprise as he grabs her around the waist and hoists her up off the ground, her back pressed firmly to his chest as she curls around his forearms, clasping at them with her hands as she kicks out her feet playfully. “Got you,” he growls, spinning until the world tilts drunkenly around them both and their laughter nearly bounces off of the old stone walls.

“Got me,” Keyleth agrees as he slows, both of them breathless now. Kash holds her in his arms a moment longer before letting go, the druid’s feet touching down and immediately turning her around to land in his arms once more.

Somewhere in the distance lightning cracks through the air, the deep  _ boom _ of thunder that follows taking several seconds before it rolls across Whitestone. Around them the rain continues to pour, hammering against stone and earth loud enough that it nearly drowns out the way Kashaw’s heart is pounding.

Keyleth’s palms brace against his chest, and a fine shiver runs through her. Kash holds her closer, feeling the ice-cold press of her soaked clothes and skin against him even - especially - through his sweater. He’s got one palm across her back, the other lingering at her hip.

“Kiss me?” Keyleth asks, her voice barely a whisper and almost lost beneath the sound of the thunderstorm all around.

Her mouth is cold like the rest of her and she immediately whines into the kiss, her hands sliding from his chest up to lop around his neck, hauling herself higher and closer against him. Kash steadies her, the hand at her back sliding low to brace at her lower back even as the other wraps around her knee and drags her in until her body is flush to his.

After a while they break away, panting gently as Keyleth uses one hand to sweep Kashaw’s loosened hair out of his eyes. They’re both shivering, now, grabbing at each other like letting go means falling, and in the greying light of the thunderstorm Keyleth’s eyes practically burn. The second kiss is no less heated than the first, Kash taking the opportunity to lift Keyleth up against him and spin them around, pinning her to the wall next to the doorway she’d dragged him out of.

Keyleth gasps as her back hits the stonework, jolting heavily against Kashaw and arching in a way that makes him shudder. The support gives him ample opportunity to slide his hand under the weighty fabric of her skirts, his work-rough fingers kneading at the freezing cold skin of her outer thigh. Keyleth gives a breathy sigh against his mouth, eyes shuddering closed for just a few seconds before flashing open to fix him with that same blazing look.

“We should go inside,” Kashaw says in a low tone, his hand sliding from nearly the curve of her ass back down to her knee where it’s still bracketed over his hip. “I can think of  _ plenty _ of ways to warm us up.”


	7. Day 7: Vex & Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And we're done!

Cassandra finds her out in the training yard, alone at the archery range. It's child's play for Vex to hit the targets, her aim honed by years of adventuring; she once put an arrow through the heart of an ancient white dragon from nearly a hundred feet away through a wound in the dragon's ribcage, and after that, stationary packed-hay targets just don't have the same challenge to them. She practices here more for the relaxation of it than anything else, letting muscle memory take over and nailing nigh-perfect bullseyes every time. It gives her hands something to do while she thinks. Since Scanlan left, she’s needed to do a lot of that.

Vex hears Cassandra's hesitant footsteps in the grass but makes no effort to slow or stop her firing, merely keeping her ears pricked and attentive. When Cassandra stops, leaning against the fence that separates the archery range from the rest of the yard, Vex makes a point of letting off one more shot before setting Fenthras down and moving to reclaim her spent arrows. She returns to the head of the archery range and smiles at Cassandra, who has dressed for the early spring weather with a cloak pulled up over her shoulders.

It's traditional, or so Vex has been told, for Whitestone nobility to greet the reigning lord or lady of the castle with by bowing or curtseying and rattling off some sort of flowery bullshit title. Vex, because she is both Cassandra's friend and someday her future sister-in-law, gets away with a smile and a nod, the brief suggestion of leaning forward for a bow aided by her scooping Fenthras up from where it leans against the fence.

"Good to see you, Cass," she says, shouldering her bow and making for the fencegate. "You're up early." It's only a little after dawn; Vex had been feeling antsy, so she'd slipped out of bed long before Percy woke to make her way down here. The training yard is empty today, quite unusually.

"I couldn't sleep," Cassandra replies, her tone strained. She's holding herself too stiffly, teeth almost gritted, and Vex wisely steers them onto the path leading back to the castle. Whatever Cassandra needs of her must be important, if she'd left the safety of the castle - alone, to boot - to come seek her out, but Vex doesn't point it out. Baby steps, always.

"Mm. Me either." The conversation hangs unfinished between them until they are inside again, the grand entrance hall of Whitestone Castle making their footsteps echo. Cassandra draws a breath and beckons for Vex to follow her, and the two women work their way along the hallways making up the veins and arteries of the castle until they are stood in Cassandra's study.

Silence stretches uncomfortably for the span of several seconds until Cassandra breaks it.

"I wanted to talk to you about my brother." Her tone is careful but not disapproving; Vex is certain this talk will not be Cassandra trying to chase her away, though she privately thinks she's welcome to try. Larger things than her have failed.

Instead she laughs. "Is this the  _ 'hurt him and I'll hurt you' _ talk?" she says teasingly, hands on her hips as she smiles at Cassandra. She's startled when Cassandra laughs too, shaking her head.

"Vex'ahlia, I'm not sure if you noticed this, but you're carrying a bow that was, if the story you've told is true, forged in the days of a war between the gods. You've killed four ancient dragons, two beholders, and an archfey. I am, at best, a girl with a knife. I'm almost impressed you think I could  _ ever _ hurt you." Cassandra's eyes glint knowingly. "Besides, you could break Percy's heart a thousand times over and he'd be upset with  _ me  _ for hurting  _ you _ ."

"So if this  _ isn't _ that kind of talk, what did you want?" Vex asks, though her tone is more curious than it is impatient. Having burned off some excess energy she's quite fancying the idea of sliding back into bed, if only because it is warm and Percy will be there, but it can wait until Cassandra’s done talking.

Cassandra takes her time to answer, a trait which makes Vex wonder if it's something de Rolos are just naturally inclined towards - a whole family of people who take forever to speak and signal each new thought with a heavy sigh. Still, she eventually does answer. "I know that you love him," she begins, and Vex doesn't mean for her breath to catch the way it does. "And he  _ adores  _ you. I never thought I'd see the day Percival fell in love with  _ anyone _ ."

Vex makes a small noise. "Did he not - growing up? No girlfriends? Boyfriends?" Vex had spent her puberty in Syngorn and the beginning years of adulthood in bars; even scorned as she had been by her peers in Syngorn, she'd found no shortage of partners. The idea of Percy being alone  _ baffles  _ her. He’s handsome, and charming, and kind in his own way.

"No." Cassandra sighs, taking a seat and kneading at her temples. "Not that I recall. Not for lack of trying, mind you - Julius even tried to drag him to a brothel once. But here he is, looking at you like you hung every star in the sky."

Her cheeks warm at Cass's words. For all that she'd had plenty of partners, she's not sure she loved or was loved by any of them - not the way Percy does. "And you're... pleased?" she says, remembering her voice, silently cursing herself for sounding so hopeful.

Leaning her elbows on the table, Cassandra nods and smiles. "You make him  _ happy _ . All I ask is that you look after him." Her smile fades slightly. "We have both been through terrible things. He's given you his heart, and it's a fragile thing. I'd ask that you take care not to break it."

_ He has my heart too, _ Vex doesn't say.  _ I gave it to him a long time ago. _ Aloud, she says, "I would never. He means too much to me for that." Her words come out so soft that for a moment Vex is sure Cassandra didn't hear, but after a moment, Cassandra nods.

"I consider you a sister," she says, just as softly. She has her hands clasped in front of her face, inspecting her fingers carefully. "And I think our parents would have liked you. You're a de Rolo in all but name to me," she finishes, looking up from her hands with a tender little smile across her lips.

Vex knows her face is doing... something. Probably something embarrassing. She can feel her eyes go wide, her jaw fall slightly slack. The thought that Cassandra considers her  _ family _ , trusts her enough to do that after five years of being unable to trust  _ anyone _ , makes something warm bloom between Vex's ribs. "Thank you," she whispers.

Still smiling, Cassandra inclines her head. "And thank you, Vex. That will be all," she says before Vex can ask what she means, and she recognises the end of the conversation when she sees it. She ducks out of the study and begins the walk back to the room she shares with Percy, and each step feels lighter than air.


End file.
